“That’s okay, I’m good.”
“It’s not a request, it’s a prerequisite to coming east with us. I don’t want to make you a healthy scratch but I’m not sure you and Tate are working your lines in the best way.”
What? Benching me? And where did Tate Collins, wunderkind and all around nice guy come into this? I hadn’t noticed any issues with Tate’s line. In fact, Tate had been the one carrying the team over the last few games with the once famous JAR line imploding under my lack of playing the right way. He stared at me, and I met his steady gaze as realization slid through me and hot shame followed. He wasn’t telling me that Tate and I had problems with our respective lines, he was suggesting that I had a problem, and that it was falling to Tate to fill the gaps, and that this was an issue. I deflated and slid down in my chair. Of course it was an issue.
“I’ll see Charlie,” I offered, a lot less confident than I had been before. I’d been relying on good old hockey bullishness to get me through this, but not only was I fucking up my relationship, I was fucking up the team.
“You can go now. He’s waiting.”
“I will.” I almost made it out of the door when Coach called my name.
“Madsen? For what it’s worth you have the capacity to be the best second line center in the NHL. The JAR line is your ticket to being not just ordinary, but great, so mend what’s breaking before it’s too late. And please, do it before management entertains one of the many offers they have for you in trade.”
“They want to trade me?” I ran out of words in shock.
“No, fuck’s sake, Madsen, go see Charlie, get your head straight, and I want your A-game when we head for the east coast road trip on January second.”
East coast meant matching up against Boston again, playing Brooklyn, the Railers, Philly, New York, five teams where I needed that A-game. Coach was right, Jacob was right, Ten was right, hell, the cop outside the store had been right. I was shit at the moment and I needed to be better.
I grumped and sighed my way up to the top floor where management had offices, along with Charlie in his pastel-toned room with its soft chairs, privacy blinds, and cushions, and knocked on the door.
“Ryker, come in.” What Charlie didn’t know about hockey wasn’t worth knowing, and his brain held years of experience and understanding. I’d heard on the player grapevine, likely from Vlad, who was the font of all knowledge, that Charlie was supposed to have retired a few years ago. He was a Hall of Famer player from the seventies, then a scout for Vancouver, but I guessed the intrigue of working for a failing team like the Raptors was enough to extend his career. Now he was in a plush corner office with a neat desk, glass walls, and a gorgeous view of the city, dispensing advice to idiots like me. So far I’d avoided ever needing to see him, because I had a happy home life, no money worries, no exes causing trouble, my family was solid as well… But now… I was supposed to be on top of the world, getting married, facing down teams and getting goals and… I wasn’t.
“Ryker, hey. Shut the door.”
I did what I was told and then he waved me to the nearest seat and pressed a button to shut the blinds. I had a moment of panic as the room isolated itself from the outside world, and then I slid on the soft leather and got a throw cushion stuck under my ass for my troubles. I ended up sitting crooked for as long as it took me to fish the evil purple thing out from under me and toss it to the next chair.
“Coach sent me,” I blurted when Charlie looked over his glasses, wearing a benign smile. I imagined he’d launch right into what I was doing wrong, but instead he smiled at me.
“Did you know I was lucky enough to play against your grandpa? Scrappy, hard to defend against, kinda evil in the corners.”
“Cool.” I should have put two and two together—of course, Charlie and my grandfather would have connected through seventies hockey in the age of glam rock and flares.
“Then I scouted your dad, shame Vancouver didn’t manage to grab him.”
What was this? Family history time? “Uh huh,” I offered cautiously, and he bobbed his head.
“So, are you injured? Or is it the fact that Tate coming has pushed the JAR line to second, or is it a weird-ass thing you have going on completely unrelated to hockey?”
Talk about a quick change in subject. “I’m not injured, and I have no issues about being second line with the guys.”
“Do you think maybe Alex has an issue? Maybe with you?”
“What?” This was news to me. Alex and I were close, and he would have told me if I was fucking him off, right? Hurt ripped through me that Alex wouldn’t have just said something to me yet somehow Charlie sounded as if he and Alex had talked and—
“Ryker, I can see your brain overworking—I don’t actually know what Alex thinks.”
Relief flooded me. I knew he wouldn’t do that without talking to me first because best friends confronted their issues.
Like I’m not doing with Jacob? He’s my best friend, but I’m holding back from him. I should tell Jacob that I’m an ass and that I love him even if I can’t face up to my insecurities and jealousy.
Charlie huffed. “Look, Madsen, I don’t do all that fancy chat where I ask you about trauma or whether or not you’re worried about the finale of some reality show you’re watching, or whether a pet has died, I go straight to the core and I don’t mess about.”
“Okay—”
“Look at it this way. Tate Collins has come in to your team, taken first line, he’s an acknowledged phenom, one of the best of his generation, blah blah, and you’d fought so hard to get the Raptors up to scratch and then they reward you by pushing you and your line mates down, and leaving you on the outs. Right?”
That wasn’t entirely fair. I’d always known the minute Tate arrived that my shiny halo of being the shit was going to slip. All I wanted was what was best for the team.
What? Even if the best is Tate apple-pie Collins with his all-American smile and his perfect hair and his… well shit. Maybe I do I have an issue with him.
“I don’t resent—”
“It’s understandable,” Charlie interrupted, “but you’re a grown-ass hockey player, not a child, and you have to know your self-worth. Without the JAR line we wouldn’t have made it as far as we did last season, so own that.”
“Okay—”
“Also, your personal life, this wedding, your family heritage, your queer representation, the fact you’re hockey freaking royalty, you need to stow all of that with your suit in your locker. Now, do you have a problem with doing that, because I’ve seen it before, and without sounding harsh, if you’re not one hundred percent focused on the game then you’re letting yourself down, as well as your team.”
“I want to—”
“So in conclusion, my door is always open, the team counselor is two doors down if you think that will help.”
I think my jaw dropped and I stared at Charlie for the longest time. In the space of five minutes I’d had revelations about Jacob being my best friend, Tate being an issue, and me able to acknowledge my head wasn’t in the game. Damn he’s good.